


Assignments

by Familiae



Series: Crimes Against Decency [5]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Demons, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Survival Training, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-01-26 12:15:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21373999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Familiae/pseuds/Familiae
Series: Crimes Against Decency [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538989





	1. Crooked Crosses

Wooden and steel crosses, pentagrams, a tawaret, the eye of Horus, four-leaf clovers, horseshoes, countless precious stones—amber, amethyst, jasper, opals—slung on strings or engraved into amulets, anchors, various roots and herbs of which only a handful I could recognize. I spotted rosemary, garlic, marigold, roses, an all-seeing-eye engraved into the wall, seashells, skulls, knuckle bones, and even human teeth, rabbit feet, a rattlesnake’s rattle, the discarded skin of a snake, shrunken heads on a string, a Ba Gua over the door, an assortment of stylish or warped mirrors. Cloth draped over a few, but some were uncovered—I recognized a Ba Gua mirror, and another with gorgeously engraved frame, wind chimes, dream catchers, a pot with palaspas by the window, salt shakers, bells. Countless of books—the Torah, a Bible, scrolls of texts with an elongated script that could have been Arabic, nazars, branches of rowan strung along the countertops, ofuda. Countless archaic looking weapons—arrowheads and hatches, rusted swords and cruel-looking knives, candles, a jar of wishbones, a jar of toenails, a jar of eyeballs, a jar of withered fingers, pearls, cinnamon sticks, incense, carved flutes made of bone and wood, elephant trunks, shark teeth, the fangs of a tiger, the claws of a bear, numerous masks carved from precious stone, gold, bone, and wood. Coins—silver and gold, a hamsa, stained glass, decorative cloths depicting various scenes of deities, statues of fat men, grinning cats, Chinese dragons, snakes, nagas, and even a unicorn, and many many more.

I turned to my companion, unsure but determined, “You alright?”

He was inspecting the jar of eyeballs carefully, frowning at it, tilting his head this way and that, but at the sound of my voice, he looked up. “Sure,” he sounded his usual cheery self, at least, “stuff like this doesn’t bother me.” From the looks of the curious cobras draped over his shoulders, it didn’t bother them either.

“Oh?”

“Maybe a minor demon might feel uncomfortable,” he was fully turned towards me now, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, “but I’m a bit stronger than that. And, besides, a charm only works if the person wielding it means it.”

The explanation only puzzled me further, and I frowned. I doubted someone would waste this much money on all this stuff unless they had a clear purpose in mind. “Pretty sure this guy means it,” I gestured at the dresser, piled high with various paraphernalia of good fortune, protection or repelling of evil, and who-knows-what else.

“A few cinnamon sticks by the door of someone who truly understands its purpose would do much more than all the junk in this room,” as if to accentuate his point, he kicked aside a wooden mask that had fallen on the floor, “this is senseless paranoia—I doubt he even knows what half of this stuff is supposed to do.”

He had a point there at least.

I had come here with Apep at Izaac’s request. The trip was Apep’s—representing Izaac—though the details went over my head. Apep had explained the purpose, but only briefly, and only divulged enough information for me to know what to expect. The purpose of my being here was clear from the start: Izaac wanted me to meet, greet, and know who this person was. To what end, I wouldn’t have been able to say, but I knew that he’d only send Apep as my escort if he considered it important. Apep would be here, as my companion, to stress that I was someone important as well. I had to act the part of the mysterious, yet all-powerful guest. Already the rumors were spreading that I was some kind of vital and dangerous new companion of Izaac’s. I guess this meant it was past time to make my debut a public matter.

From what I understood, this guy had some kind of vital information Izaac needed, so he was to be treated with a fair amount of respect, but, as I understood it, if push came to shove, Apep had permission to turn things pretty ugly. Apep had assured me that this wouldn’t be necessary—that I’d understand what he meant once we arrived out our destination.

I think I knew what he meant now—this guy was almost entirely too cowardly.

I personally hadn’t met him yet, but this room, where we had been instructed to wait by a rather stereotypical-looking butler (tall, gray hair smoothed back, round glasses, twitchy mustache, stiff and formal), was a big clue-in as to what we could expect.

The room’s sole purpose was to display all his gathered gear. There was a small loveseat shoved against one of the walls, but it was piled high with crystal balls, jewels, pearls, and crosses. It only had one small window next to a looming shelf, and two doors—the one we had come in through was the one with the Ba Gua, and was made of simple dark wood. The other door stood on the opposite side of the Ba Gua, but did not have any symbol or talisman clung over its frame.

I didn’t know if it was supposed to be some kind of insult that we were shoved in here, but it was clear it was sending some kind of message.

“Do you think this is for us?” I turned to Apep then, watching him frown at a cross, while a cobra flicked its black tongue at it.

“Nah,” he looked at me with a grin, “there’s dust over the jars, see?” and to demonstrate, he wiped a finger against the metal lid of the jar—his finger came out dark grey, “I think this is just for him to know if there’s any demons around. Theoretically, if they are, they could even get dizzy or nauseous. I’m guessing a lot of his guests or clients have minor demons as bodyguards or chaperones. Of course, he’s underestimating Izaac, but whatever makes the old fool feel safer.”

I frowned, “Wouldn’t that mean he’d have some way to look into the room?”

“Why, of course,” and with that, he snatched a mask away from the wall, revealing what looked like a small peephole, “there’s also microphones and cameras—I think I found all the cameras, but not the mics.”

So that’s what he was doing, nosing around and lifting things as he pleased.

But then I realized what that meant, and I felt my face flush with embarrassment, “Ah—”

“Don’t worry about it!” he cut me off before I could even put a word in, “he wasn’t expecting me, you see, and I’m Izaac’s husband, so I’m pretty much known by sight.” He grinned at me, flashing his teeth, “Bastard must be quaking in his boots right now.”


	2. Stalking Hounds

The floor was wet and moist with the remnants of the drumming rain. It had ceased just as suddenly as it came, leaving the scenery around it drenched and bewildered. Trees had bowed under its weight, green leaves lay strewn on the ground, and the earth was churned to mud where the branches could not shelter it. It left a heavy scent of moisture and tree sap, and as Markus peered from beneath his shelter at the faint rays of the sun, he was assaulted by a smell akin to wet dog. 

He recoiled, fingers slipping against the wet stone that formed the walls of his shelter. Although “shelter” was a stretch, but the only word he could summon to describe it. It was made from two separate slabs of stones, twice his weight, and as thick as his chest. One stood, jutting down from the ground—the material cool to the touch, with blue veins of what appeared to be marble. Over it, another piece of a different, grayer, material had collapsed upon it. The edges of the slab were jagged, and a crack stretched across the upper side of it where a little rain had filtered through. Markus had been huddled against the upright stone, back pressed tight against it, arms wrapped around his knees in an attempt to keep himself warm. He had expected the rain to drum all through the night as he stumbled into his shelter, and although, the rain’s abrupt halt came as a surprise, it would not be a pleasant one.

He’d need to walk through mud and gunk then, avoiding swinging vines, and sharp spikes of the foliage, and he’d need to do it soon. At least if it was dark, he could have gotten some rest, but of course that proved too much to ask.

Reluctantly, Markus stumbled to his feet, using the steep walls around him for support. It took three tries before his fingers managed to prize on a ridge in the stone to boost himself up. With a groan, he climbed to his feet, boots nearly slipping across the slick ground.

Stooping to avoid smacking against the makeshift roof, Markus stepped out of his temporary shelter, squinting at the sunlight. He remembered those days of sitting in the living room sofa, Matt and Tam to either side, watching cartoons of children exploring thick vermin-infested jungles and climbing impossible mountains and, as he watched a bird flutter nervously from tree to tree, he couldn’t help thinking how much bullshit they fed kids these days. He could hardly give ten steps into these woods without landing flat of his face, never mind trying to hike into the very heart of these woods in a day.

Pushing back the senseless thoughts, he picked his footing to swerve away from the jagged edges of shattered stone and glass, and followed the nearly-vanished trail he had been tracing when the rain began to fall.

He had managed to drink rainwater from the cracks in the stone and scoops of cold water between his hands as he waited out the storm, but he had not eaten a bite since he had last seen Izaac. There was a dull pain where he was sure his stomach had previously been, and despite how faint he felt as he dragged his weary and blistered feet, he knew he should not eat. A bite and he was sure he’d be upchucking his meal all over his nice, new (muddy and broken) boots, though at that point, even the wet leaves of the trees looked to be mildly appetizing.

He walked on, head down to watch where he set his feet down, hands shoved within his pants’ pockets. Many a time had he rifled through his possessions only to come up with nothing of use—a yellow paperclip, a pack of gums (now, not even the wrappers remained), some lint, a condom (ironic), and the gun Izaac had given him. Once upon the time, there had been bullets on the gun, but as soon as hunger started gnawing at his belly, Markus had attempted the most basic skills of his ancestors, and turned out nothing but animals squealing in fear as they ran and a lot of empty bullet casings. Yes, he was ready to survive anything.

If he saw another kid’s show centered around exploring again in his life, he’d make sure to aim the gun at that.

As much as it was worth, he still had the gun. He figured that, at the very least, if worse came to worse; he’d turn the hard butt of it on himself, and pummel his forehead until he was knocked out. Hope some starving animal did him in while he slept deeply.

So maybe he had tried flinging it at some animals a few times before he gave up completely, but, hey, at the very least, he had retrieved it.

Oh, how Izaac would be mocking him if he could see Markus now. That, or be thoroughly unimpressed. Maybe mock him on the inside. Apep at least would have a laugh, and rather openly too.

It was difficult to say if a wandering mind was the signs of lost wits or simply desperation, but Markus gingerly chose to quiet his mind’s buzzing and concentrate on setting one foot before the other. If he kept thinking of Izaac he’d end up hailing the gun as his lord and savior—maybe he’d become a—was it a pilgrim? No. That sounded wrong. Apostle, that was the word. He’d spread the word of guns and their salvation, which could be spread only if you had bullets.

Useless.

There were also snakes in the woods. And a lot of them. Too many snakes—he had woken up with a green one with yellow accents curled over his chest a day back. He had talked to it some, in hopes that maybe it was one of Apep’s lackeys and he’d be there to listen to him, but it had squirreled away without a sound. At least there weren’t any rabbits.

He should have eaten the snake.

He wanted Damien—a big strong black yeti to carry him away in muscled arms and locks of the darkest ebony. Or maybe not. Damien would coddle him, yes, but he was at the point that if a giant flame bird descended on wings of rainbow feathers upon him and invited him to grab hold of its golden claws to escape this forest, he’d accept, despite how ungodly hot the ride would be. He might even accept a rabbit’s help. Maybe. If it didn’t remind him of Ashlin.

His survival skills were so underdeveloped he couldn’t even tell the time of day. What was even the point of this? He should’ve died the day he tried to shoot the warthog, gored by the fearsome beast’s horns, but instead he had wasted his bullets and his energy for the day. With no food safe whatever fruit or berries he managed to scavenge from nearby trees, his headache grew to outstanding proportions and his energy seemed to be in the negatives. If he moved it was only because—

Better not think about that.

Markus groaned again, feeling his feet wet with either water or blood. He dragged himself along by pure force of thought—because he doubted any source remained besides that. He heard birds chattering around him, but only saw the mud and ground and—

The grass. There was grass under his feet. He lifted his gaze, and, he wasn’t sure, but it looked like the trees were thinning. Could this be only his twisted sense of perception? Was he so far gone he was developing false hopes? Could he have been all this time so close to his freedom, but he wasted it all away, huddled under the ruins of some long-gone temple and sucking rain water from the rocks?

Could this be the taste of freedom or of his stomach devouring his internal organs? Maybe even his tears.

He did not dare to hurry his step, but there was a slight spring to it. His boots felt comfortable once more, and he could easily ignore the squishing sounds of his socks rubbing against what must surely be boils of pus and blood by now. He twisted and skidded to avoid the trees, not caring as the vines wrapped around his fingers and rid him of bits and flesh. It was less weight to carry—he was sure it’d make his journey easier, in a way.

After a few minutes, it did become apparent that the trees were growing further apart, and that his feet were indeed filled with crippling blisters that would require urgent medical attention, but Markus did not care. He was heading towards freedom. So what if he still ended up in the middle of nowhere, at least he’d be free of this damnable forest and there he could spread his wings and fly.

Or just sleep a little.

The grass grew longer, the trees were spread so far apart Markus no longer had to cover his face with his arms for fear of his eyes getting clawed out. Once he stepped out of the forest, he swore the winds of hope and change tickled his skin, blowing his hair from his face and drying him almost instantly—or a helicopter. It could be that too.

A damn _silent_ helicopter. Markus hadn’t even heard it—still could not hear it as he stood mere meters before it. It was there, obviously on, buffeting the grass and the nearby trees, but not a sound emerged from it. Was it in another dimension? Had Markus grown deaf?

There was no one around either—he thought he could see a pilot in the helicopter’s cabin, but the light bounced off the glass turning him half-blind. He stumbled a few steps forward, eyes wide, uncomprehending. He felt his mouth fall open, but he could not recall it asking permission to do so.

Pain flashed up his side, and he found the sky rearing before him. He landed heavily, his head smacked hard against the ground, and the air left his lungs in a _whoosh_. He gasped, grasping at the form that had wrestled him to the ground, but it was only to discover that his attention should be put on something much larger, looming behind the thick shoulders that held him in place.

At first glance, it looked like some kind of horrid canine. It stood on all four, as tall as cattle, with a long muzzle tipped with razor sharp teeth as long as Markus’ index finger. Its eyes were charcoal black, its fur black with grey and white hairs across its hide, and its skull was long and elongated akin to that of a sight hound with triangle-shaped ears. The saliva was inky black, dribbling in long rivulets from its mouth. The creature was emancipated—ribs standing out along its side, the bones of his hips pointed and marked. It breathed heavily, eyes fixed on Markus.

As Markus watched its jaws parted, revealing a tongue that seemed to glow with jagged stripes of blue. The beast’s foul breath reached Markus’ then—carrion and rotting meat. He closed his eyes, tried to look away—

And suddenly there was a series of _snaps_ in quick succession. The dog swayed on its feet, its eyes rolled, and just like that, it fell to the floor.

“I told you he could do it,” Apep’s voice sang somewhere next to him.

When Markus leaned back, he was met with the crooked grin that could only belong to—

A groan. Markus turned to look away. It was then that he noticed that the shoulders before him were trembling with silent laughter. When he inspected the figure more closely, he saw the familiar golden hairs that could only belong to—

When he had said he wouldn’t mind if he was rescued by a rabbit that didn’t remind him of Ashlin, he did not mean that his rescuer should be the man himself. He would have crawled away if it wasn’t for his lack of will. His strength had left him along with his breath, and he could hardly bring himself to move.

“Took him longer than expected,” without a doubt, the speaker was Izaac. Markus could not mistake that voice for any others.

“But he did it, didn’t he?”

“I suppose...”

Markus felt his eyelids grow heavy. His muscles felt weak and weary—could not even move his legs. It’d be just like Ashlin to have shattered his spine in the fall.

“You shot him too, didn’t you?” was that Damien?

“I _toldja_ you should’ve gotten Eddie on it,” sang December from somewhere by his feet.

“That had enough drugs in it to put a rhino to sleep,” Damien’s voice was sharp.

“Sleepy time for fat rhino,” Apep sang.

Markus couldn’t even bring himself to care—he hoped at the very least that rhinos slept a lot, because he could hardly hold on to his senses. He was drifting, the voices growing distant.

“Where is his bag?” Izaac sounded closer now and very cross.

Ash giggled by Markus’ ear. That was the only answer Markus needed.

And before he could hear anymore, his thoughts sunk into darkness.


	3. Meeting

His eyes were narrowed to slit—brilliant blue, alive and sparkling with mischief. There was a perfect little smile hanging over his lips, and he leaned his face just the slightest bit to the right when he noticed Markus’ eyes on him, the smile growing even wider.

Markus resisted the urge to shudder and looked away, trying not to flinch when the musical laughter drifted up from across him. When Markus did not look again, Ashlin turned his attention away from him and went to stroke the perfect ivory furred rabbit on his lap. The thing was much too small to be considered any real hassle to carry around, so it seemed Ashlin simply chose to carry it everywhere as a consequence—watching it wrinkle its pink nose and stare fixedly at Markus with its beady red eyes without a care in the world.

_Don’t think about it._

Just then someone came into the room—shoes tap-tap tapping against the floor. The steps echoed loudly across the otherwise silent room, and Markus could see, out of the corner of his eye, the rabbit perking up its ears, sniffing at the air. Ashlin may have nodded in the newcomer’s direction—Markus couldn’t be sure.

“Ashlin, what a pleasure to see you!” the voice was that of a man’s, the tone sounded heavily of forced pleasantry.

“Likewise, Robert,” unlike the man’s, Ashlin’s tone sounded perfectly poised and polite. 

“Does this mean Izaac has decided to grace us with a visit?”

Markus tuned the rest of the conversation out. No, Izaac hadn’t come to visit. Instead he had sent Ashlin and a woman Markus had just met today in his stead—Markus had been thrown in at the woman’s request. Why, Markus still wasn’t sure, but he knew Izaac would have something in mind. Ashlin had been behaving himself as much as Ashlin could, so Markus supposed he should count himself lucky. He didn’t feel very lucky, however.

“...follow me to my office. Is the young man coming?”

Markus perked up, turned his head to look at the man. He was tall—tall and slim, all skin and bones. His face was gaunt, showing off the sharp bones underneath the skin, his lips small and thin—so thin they were no more than a line on his face. He wore a black suit of the kind Izaac seemed to like so much, his hair was close cropped and dark.

“No,” Ashlin stood from his chair, a hand cradling the small rabbit.

And just like that, as soon as the man knew Markus was not important, he simply resumed ignoring him. “Very well then.”

There was a shuffle of footsteps, and the man seemed to walk away—most likely towards the door to the room, but Ashlin did not move. He stared at the spot where the man was, then suddenly turned to Markus, grinning.

“Don’t wander around, love,” he purred, suddenly too close for Markus’ comfort. He pushed back, trying to dig himself into the chair, but Ashlin caught his face with a hand that stunk of rabbit, flashing his teeth in a shark-like grin. “Wouldn’t want the little kitty to get lost, hmmm?” 

Before Markus could answer, Ashlin placed a lick over his lips, smiling when he caught Markus’ eyes. “Ring your cute little bell if you need me.”

With that Ashlin whipped around, head held high and the rabbit leaned against his chest. Never once did he look back at Markus, but his eyes were solely focused on the man.

_Poor sucker_, Markus could only think as he watched the pair disappear into the doorway.


	4. Acid

The saliva pooled into his mouth and dripped from his chin onto the floor with little _hiss_ing sounds. When I looked closer, it was only to notice that strings of smoke floated up from the spot where the saliva fell, creating little openings on the ground as the acid ate through the material of the floor.

I paused then, wary of disturbing him, but he did not move. When the saliva splayed on his clothes, the threads dissolved into nothing, but despite this, it did not mar his skin.

It was sad that my only thought went along the lines of—

_You’ve known you’ve read and seen too much weird shit when the only thing you can think of is how much time that would save when stripping_.

I did not think Apep would laugh at my joke.

I tried to be careful as I turned my head to inspect my surroundings in the half-darkness of the room. I knew for a fact there was something dead and rotting around—the smell of it assaulted my nostrils and made my eyes water.

Apep moved suddenly and without warning. One moment he was sitting up on the floor, the next he was standing, stooping slightly, swaying on his feet. With every little movement, more drops of acid hit the floor with a sharp _hiss_.

“He isn’t back.”

It wasn’t a question, but even so, I felt compelled to answer—to say _anything_.

“No.”

He tilted his head then, though his face was shrouded in darkness, it was not difficult to imagine his expression. He’d be both puzzled and confused, but also enraged. He had strictly asked (demanded) no one disturb him until Izaac returned.

I felt my heart in my throat as I struggled to explain, trying hard not to breathe in the foul stench of decomposing bodies. Somehow, I felt the only reason I was still standing was because of the affection Apep held for me.

“Then?”

I cleared my throat, “There’s a problem.”

One... two... three... four... five... six... seven... eight-

“What problem?”

I allowed myself to breathe.

“There’s trouble with something-a demon, I assume, because Izaac requires your assistance.”

No immediate reply once more. Apep seemed to be gauging how much of it was true. If he had asked I would’ve told him—only half of it was true. But that didn’t matter, what mattered was which half he believed.

“He did not say that.”

I tried not to show my anxiousness, but it was impossible. Apep could see me clear as day in the darkness, and something told me he could hear my puttering heart.

“No,” I admitted, “but he is calling.”

Apep seemed to consider that for a moment, unmoving. I almost wanted to throw something at him.

“I won’t hear it,” was all he said before he turned away.

I tried not to flinch at the coldness of his tone. I almost wanted to protest, but instead quickly turned away. I was not sure if I was relieved Apep had left me unharmed, untortured, and unfucked—Izaac would be far from pleased.

\--------------------------

Eyes narrowed to slits; hands clenched into fists. His teeth pressed together, grinding against each other in a way that made all those presents sure that his teeth would be permanently ruined. Nostrils flared—a single breath was drawn.

“It’s alright, lamb,” the voice was cheery, the voice, lilting—in sharp contrast to Izaac’s furious features. Even so, and despite it all, something flickered behind the cold green eyes, and they bounced from the potential victims to Apep’s face, the rage softening when it caught the small comforting smile on the demon’s lips.

“That won’t happen,” the words were calm, soothing, obviously trying to avert Izaac’s rage.

There was a sharp exhale, and for a moment nothing more happened. Izaac carefully studied Apep’s face, his fists clenching and unclenching against the fabric of his chair. A hand suddenly moved, slowly, lifting, placing his fingers against Apep’s chin, tilting it downwards. He pulled himself forward, meeting Apep’s lips with his own, greedily sucking in a breath. The kiss was wild and desperate, and there was the smallest sound of surprise from Apep before he started responding, trying to give Izaac the same fervor he was being spared.

The anger didn’t melt from Izaac’s tense form, but it did change into something else—something that quickly had others averting their gaze. There was a tense pause as the kiss was broken, both Apep and Izaac breathing heavily, looking into each other’s eyes.

Then Damien was there, barking something or the other, ushering a sense of order before Izaac’s fury reared its ugly head once more. Izaac abruptly stood from his chair, whispering something in Damien’s ear. Damien nodded once, and Izaac left the room, Apep in hand. In the opposite corner, Ashlin tittered—had he overheard what Izaac had said?

Damien hesitated—brown eyes flicking across the room, something like worry in his eyes. I wondered why—Damien was never the type to so openly show his emotions like this—then I noticed he was mostly looking at me. I tried not to look away, curious as to what would have that look swimming in his gaze.

He nodded at Ashlin. Ashlin tittered once more—like a blushing maid, before he stepped forward, a leering grin on his face.

The person besides me gasped. Someone pushed their fists at their face to hold back a scream.

I closed my eyes. Ashlin’s slow deliberate footsteps echoed across the room.


	5. Of Lambs and Sheep

“It has come to my attention that the sheep’s unrelenting screams are waking the lambs from their sleep.”

I looked up at the sound of a voice. A sheep bleated in alarm at the sudden movement, taking a hasty step sideways that made it bump against its neighbor. The neighbor let its outrage be known, and the nearby sheep turned tail and trotted away—looking as confused and startled as I was feeling. Although, I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when my eyes met unblinking startling green ones.

The reaction seemed to amuse Apep, for I noted a small smile hovering over his lips. He was leaning against the wooden fence that circled the sheep’s enclosure, arms crossed over his chest, wearing grey drawstring pants and a white cotton shirt, his hair tousled which gravely hinted at the fact that he most likely had just rolled out of bed. 

“Lambs are sensitive and easily frightened,” he continued, as if he just hadn’t blown in out of nowhere to scare my sheep half to death, “hardly a suitable environment for their bodies and fragile psyches to develop. Surely this will be a hinder in the future; when their tempers grow sour or they shriek and scatter away like birds when so much as a grasshopper stumbles their way. It’d cause great unrest within the herd to have a lamb raised under such conditions wander in their midst, especially if the little lamb turns to violence when no other simple solution presents itself. Perhaps the little one would not cause so much trouble, but if left unchecked, its temperament could turn most foul and some of the sheep wind up hurt.”

I sighed.

Apep’s smile widened, turning his unflinching gaze away from mine, but not moving from his perch.

At first glance, I thought Apep was threatening me. Closer inspection made me hesitate to assume so, however. Apep knew I did not respond well to threats. Positive reinforcement was my cup of tea and the only one I would have or not at all.

Apep knew this. He had witnessed it firsthand, even commented on it in that off-hand way of his. I did not know him as a man to mince words either. Despite appearances, Apep oftentimes acted as if he spoke for one’s benefit instead of his own; he did not take the habit to go out of his way for no reason. A motive was there, even if it was not exactly clear.

So would he really waste his time threatening me? 

No, I realized, he wasn’t threatening me. It sounded more like a warning.

It was Izaac, I realized immediately following that thought.

Stress building up; Izaac did not seem like his usual aloof self—frowns and glares came easier, his mouth downturned at the corners. He spent even more time than usual locked away in his office, and when I passed I heard an angry undertone to his voice that indicated a heated argument. It was plausible that the sheep’s scream-like bleats added stressors to his life that he did not need, hell, even awaken him from his sleep if he ever found the type to lie down. If that was the case, his pent-up frustrations would need a way to release themselves, and if the sheep were to give him the sliver of an excuse he needed to take it out on them...

“It’s the heat. It makes the wildcats and snakes rest during the day and hunt during the night. The sheep smell them and go wild,” I struggled to explain—hoping, perhaps, that this was the answer Apep was looking for.

His eyes flicked back towards me, his head tilted to the side as if trying to catch a distant sound. His eyes locked on mine and remained there for a long moment before he finally grunted, turning away from me and walking off—hands shoved in the pocket of his loose pants.

Why would I have expected any different?

I sighed and turned back to the sheep, my thoughts running, trying to figure out how I could possibly calm them down and prevent their shrieks.

The next morning, alarmed bleating woke me. 

In their pasture there was a single fat sheep with its belly slit open from groin to throat; congealed blood pooling around it, the grass stained bright crimson. Its insides had been ripped off and left in a neat pile nearby—I spotted green guts and a pale kidney perfectly balanced on top of one another and felt vile rise to my mouth. I had to avert my gaze.

When I dropped to my knees, I spotted something shifting inside it, alarmed now, fearing the worse I stuck fingers inside the great wound, ignoring my better instinct, trying not to think of the stickiness of the fluids on my fingers—trying to resist the temptation to flinch away. When I finally clutched at the flap of skin and pulled it back from the carcass, it only to turn my head immediately away, stumbling before falling to my knees on the grass to gag.

Inside the sheep’s emptied husk were the disemboweled remains of a child, bound and gagged with eyes glassy. Its chest and throat had been torn open with what looked like claws, dragged across its abdomen and belly until its insides has turned to nothing but and indistinguishable mass of flesh and blood.


	6. Charmeine

The smell of sweat and despair perpetuated throughout the whole building—from the welcoming foyer where I had been greeted by a pair of poodles and a young man wearing a skirt, all the way to the office, where Seth sat, hunched over the desk and looking fit enough to nod off at any moment now.

“Maybe you should get some rest,” I suggested meekly.

The glare he shot me would’ve made flowers wither.

I took a step back, nearly bumping into a standard silver poodle. The dog growled at me, then proceeded to, helpfully, lie down on the floor where it sighed. I guessed the owner wasn’t the only one getting overworked.

With little choice, I finally asked the clincher, “What’s wrong?”

I think Seth seriously needed to lie down, because when I asked me that he looked as if he would pounce at me and rip my throat out using only his teeth. “_Damien,_” he made it sound like the most vile of words.

It seemed like murder was afoot. Murder most foul.

“Did you call Izaac?” from what I understood, Damien was coming a lot lately, and spiriting away all the whores that suited his fancy. The fact that Seth couldn’t charge him meant that he had to pay them out of his own pocket, with nothing but losses to show for it. If Damien decided to keep one for himself, however...

“I can deal with it,” he snarled. 

A little toy poodle crawled from under the sofa, clearly wondering what the hubbub was about. It bobbed its red head at me, turned to look at Seth, when turned again towards me so fast I thought it’d get whiplash.

And then it started barking at me.

The silver behind me lifted its head and stared. I was starting to think this dog was simply the epitome of helpfulness. A little part of me wondered why, with Seth’s temper as it was, he didn’t snap at the dog to shut up when I remembered he was deaf. I suppose yappy dogs weren’t a problem when you couldn’t hear them.

Seth had obliviously turned back to his paperwork, and I did not think bothering him would be wise. That left _me_ to deal with Mr. or Miss Yappy.

“Hush,” I told the dog, unsure of what to do. Did Seth teach them sit in English? In sign language? In Russian?

The little toy didn’t even blink. It stopped to snarl at me, then tilted its head back and continued its endless barking. I sighed, took a step towards it, and that seemed to be a mistake. The poodle launched itself towards me, its teeth clamping around the leg of my jeans.

And this is why they said: “gingers have no soul.”

I stumbled back a few steps, nearly stepping over my helpful silver friend. The silver growled, the toy snarled. The silver stood up. I felt the last of my sanity slipping away, as I stepped on the silver, tripped, and went flying back with a ridiculously tiny dog attached to my leg.

The best part was that it never let go, not even when I hit the floor.

My head smacked hard enough against the floor to see stars. The silver snarled at me and gingerly edged away, running to its master. I think the toy poodle started humping me then.

So it was a boy then.

“Markus what the f—_Charmeine, down!_”

And just like that the little soulless beast from the pits of hell released me, sitting down next to my leg and looking up at Seth with wonder, admiration, and adoration.

That dog was Lucifer himself.

Seth rushed to my side, helping me up. I groaned, clutched at my head, and tried not to kick the thing aside.

“You alright?”

I wanted to say that, no. I wasn’t alright. I had just been taken down by a poodle the size of a Chihuahua, and to top that off it had sexually molested my leg. In some countries, this qualified as a criminal offense. I wonder if I could press charges against a toy poodle? But, of course, none of that mattered, and I suppose holding a lawsuit against Seth wouldn’t even make sense. “Yeah.”

“Sorry—Charmeine is a bit too territorial for his own good.”

I wouldn’t say that exactly.

“When did you get that dog? Silverpoof over there I remember, but this guy’s new.”

“Damien got him for me,” and by his frown, it was clear it had been as some sort of apology gift, “and her name is Conquest.”

Right. Conquest the silver standard poodle. Better remember that amongst the thousands of other dogs in this building. But now that he mentioned it, I also remembered that there was also a War, a Death, and a Famine roaming around. Poodlepocalypse.

But the mention of Damien did remind me of something.

“Call Izaac,” I told him again, “before it’s too late. I’m sure he won’t mind, but wait much more and he’ll be cross with you.”

Seth sighed, turning to look at Conquest, who now laid down next to his desk. “I guess I should,” his tone said he wasn’t looking forward to it.

“It’ll be fine. Izaac has always been reasonable—can hardly blame you for what Damien’s up to,” I ruffled his hair, causing the satanpoo to snarl. “Now, where’s Left and Right? I need some sane poodles after this.”

Seth frowned, “They should be wandering around—just call them. I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you.”

I nodded. Seth stood and offered me a boosting hand, which I eagerly took. Lucifloof turned to look at me and growl, but did not protest as I exited the room.

Time to find those cuddly idiots. I just had about my fill of small yappy dogs for today.


	7. Soft Greetings

I was lying on my side atop plush sheets, inhaling what felt like a familiar scent. 

My arms were tied behind me, a blindfold covered my eyes casting everything in darkness, and a yellow bow was tied around my throat, covering a soft velvet collar. The collar was comfortable enough, but only after trying to escape my current bind was that I realized it was connected to a chain—the chain rattled with my every movement, and when I tried yanking at it, I discovered it was tied somewhere. Most likely, it was tied to the headboard of the bed.

I groaned into the bed sheets. My mind was foggy—I couldn’t exactly remember what had happened. I knew Apep had been there—had said something, something about—

The sound of footsteps.

I pushed myself backwards until my hands pressed against the headboard of the bed. Carefully, I tried shifting the ties around my hands, but it was useless. I hissed, struggling to pull myself free—anything.

A door opened.

My muscles stiffened, I stopped breathing.

“Markus?”

My head snapped up—my heart sped up.

“What are you doing...?”

My breathing sped up. Suddenly I was pulling myself forward—towards the sound. The chain rattled, and my balance failed me. I half-dragged, half-crawled towards the sound of his voice. I tried to speak several times, but my voice failed me.

“Hey, hey, calm down, it’s OK,” his voice was shrill with concern. With gentle fingers he sat me back, whenever he touched, I felt my flesh heat up.

“J-Jo,” my voice cracked.

“Shh,” Jo’s hands smoothed my hair back. I couldn’t find my breath. “I’ll have you out, just stay still.”

His fingers worked around the blindfold, and I had to resist the urge to lean against him. Suddenly, I was sharply aware of what the familiar scent had been—it had been Jo. Jo’s bed. I was sitting, tied up like a present, on Jo’s bed. I wasn’t exactly sure how it was possible, but somehow, I knew it was true—suddenly Apep’s words made sense—

“_You’ve been such a good kitty, I thought I should give you a treat.”_

_W-what? _

_“Someone you miss dearly—I talked to Izaac and he helped me arrange it all. I hope you like your surprise.”_

_Who?_

_“Oh, I shant spoil the surprise! You’ll see. I’ll have to warn you though; you might feel dizzy and get a headache. Just remember to breathe and it’ll all be fine.”_

He was referring to Jo. Something about it made my heart thud hard against my ribs. I wanted to see him. I wanted to _touch_ him—

“Hey, still—this knot’s hard,” Jo scolded with a few chuckles. 

I tried to remain still, tried thinking of his scent, his voice.

Then just like that, the blindfold was slipping lower over my nose. I blinked at the brilliant light, squinting at the brightness. Despite it all, I refused to draw away—to look away from Jo. I blinked, trying to clear my vision and that’s when his details became clear.

He was wearing his wig—long black hair draping over his back with crimson flecks of color. His eyes were brown and bright—soothing, in a way. The color of chocolate. His smile was broad and open—bright and friendly, and at the sight of it my heart gave a painful squeeze within my ribs.

“Jo,” I was equal parts relieved and amazed. I wanted to reach forward—to touch him, but my hands were pulled together by ropes.

Jo’s smile broadened, and before I could say another word, his lips pressed against mind. It was a quick thing—a peck on the lips, and I felt myself eagerly leaning forward for more. I wanted to tell him I missed the taste of him—wanted to feel him more deeply.

“You’re a bit overeager today,” Jo said with a grin.


	8. Crayons

A blur of orange, black, and white scuttled past my desk, leaping over my arm, and landing with a soft _thump_ on the other side of it. It turned, flicking its eyes towards me briefly, before turning to the door, a low growl rumbling in its chest. Its head was down, its round ears flat against its neck, the fur along its back bristling, and the crayons sprouting from either side of its spine trembling slightly.

Frankly, it made a ridiculous sight.

A few heartbeats later, there was a knock on the door.

Sigge’s growled intensified, and soon its whole body was bristling with its tiny fury.

Wordlessly, I stroked its side with two fingers, half-afraid the little creature would leap from my desk to land in a splat on the ground. Sigge turned to side-eye me once more, the growl cutting off abruptly. I was relieved, but it was short-lived—another knock on the door and the little creature whipped about and leapt from my grasp.

It neared the desk’s edge, and growled, this time, its tiny beak clacked along with the sound. It paced the edge, shooting glowers towards the door.

I sighed, “Come in.”

The girl that stepped forward was lithe, with a button nose and wide hips. She turned her brown eyes from me to the now-snarling Sigge before taking a step within my office.

“Guy insisting on seeing you—the one from the other day? With the statues...”

That was all it took for Sigge to start maniacally barking. It threw its head back and barked at her, the way its whole body shook left me frightened for it—I thought the stiff fur would shoot off from its back and impale someone.

“What does he want now?” I tried to speak over Sigge’s mad barking.

“Won’t say—insists he wants to see you,” I had to give it to her—she did a fine job at ignoring Sigge.

I leaned forward against my chair, quickly scooping up Sigge into my hands before it could leap. It howled then—was it supposed to be frustration? And squirmed in my grasp, the howl ending in little mournful chirping noises as its little heart was crushed into pieces at its inability to frighten its newfound enemy.

With a sigh, I ran my hands through the fur along its head and sides, but it did not quiet. It continued with its mournful little birdsong, squirming in my grasps whenever I stopped stroking it.

“He a bit of a handful, huh?”

“Likes making a racket is all—send him off.”

“But...”

Sigge snarled.

“I won’t see him,” I said, “if he asks tell him I have to deal with a dog-bird-thing.”

She looked doubtful, I could see she almost protested, but in the end, knew better than to try and simply offered a stiff nod. When she turned to leave, she didn’t close the door.

I almost called her back.

Instead I sighed, leaning back on the chair and setting Sigge against my chest. He closed his eyes, nestled more comfortably against me and purred.


	9. Bull

There was anger etched into every line of his body. The stiff shoulders, the clenched teeth, the lines around his eyes, the muscle jumping in his temple—it came off him in waves. He was practically huffing and puffing in my ear, an impatient bull digging its cracked hooves on the sand—eyes fixed on the waving target of the single red flag that would make its temper rise with every gust of wind.

He simply needed to lower his head, viciously pointed horns aimed, and take a swing at it.

Though, at this time, I found his anger more like the volatile temper of an old Billy goat than the vicious beast many thought of him as. He knew better than to charge. Knew better than to let his anger take hold of him by the teeth. He would seethe and wait for the perfect moment to strike almost at random.

So I walked with my back straight and the snorting goat at my ear. His moist breath at the back of my head almost made me smile—a little snuffling goat eager to be free of its rope. 

He said something, too low for me to catch—Russian? Whatever the case, the string of words wandered off and ceased completely almost as soon as I began. Behind me, he stiffened briefly. I could almost see him—a dark scowl appearing over his brows, eyes narrowed, flitting wildly from side to side, before he would relax. The slip back to disgruntled body guard.

Finally, I chose to bite. “It can’t be bothering you that much.”

He snorted. No other answer. Just the snort not unlike that of a furious bovine. I turned to look behind me, but he simply ushered me ahead, the vehicle already mere footsteps in front of us.

He held open the door without a thought. Eyes already flitting wildly, searching, scanning. Maybe my Billy goat was automatized, search and destroy. Snort and growl.

As soon as I was within, he shuffled inside. A barked, “Drive!” was thrown at the driver, and I was taken aback by his sudden viciousness. When I looked up to search for my answer in the lines of his body, it was only to be surprised by his hands on my waist. His mouth quickly found the crook between my neck and shoulder, and his hips pressed and grinded against me. Surprisingly quite aroused for what must have been a matter of seconds.

My eyes moved to find the front view mirror—doubt written over the light blue eyes of the driver. The question was clear there, should he move, should he stay. 

His arms tugged at my hips, his crotch ground against my eyes, and his teeth found brief purchase on the skin of my throat.

“Drive,” I hissed, tuning out the concerned eyes in favor of the hungry ones.


	10. Chittering Cows

If it wasn’t for the strong limbs wrapped tight around his torso, Markus’ grip would have slipped a long time ago to have him tumble to the floor. He clung to whatever handholds he could find in the foreign body, scrambling clumsily for a perch, unused to the texture, or the feel, or the dips along surface. Even so, he had little to fear. Fi seemed to be able to accurately gauge Markus’ reactions for what they were, and he adjusted his grip as he deemed best.

Every thrust sent a puddle of warmth to pour over Markus’ abdomen, but the deeper, more rolling ones seemed to incite a flash of pain. He groaned against the smooth surface of Fi’s belly, struggling to find a way to communicate his discomfort.

“I’m not a cow,” he hissed at Fi. Ever so eloquent with words.

Fi suddenly stopped moving. His head cocked to the side as he considered the words. He chittered, a strange noise that reminded Markus of body-strewn warzones.

Better not to think about such things, however—not when Fi was in him. He was supposed to be focusing on _this_.

_Sorry._

Fi shifted him again; Markus felt his touch pressing along his back, trying to adjust his position ever so slightly, pressing Markus tighter against his abdomen. He tried pushing deeper into Markus, slower this time, smothering his face against Markus’ hair and making comforting noises.

He tried slowing his movements, holding Markus tighter as he thrust inside, carefully gauging Markus’ reaction. When Markus started groaning, grasping at Fi, the alien quickened his pace, until Markus’ hips rolled with each thrust, and the sensation poured tantalizing heat that spread from abdomen to groin.

When the thrusts became more erratic, Markus clung to Fi, preparing himself for the worst—fully expecting more of those little flashes of pain. His fears were for naught, however. More heat, and his groans became louder. Fi’s thoughts pressed against his in a senseless jumble of lust and pleasure. When Fi became more forceful, his chittering nearly driving Markus deaf, Markus felt Fi press harder against his thoughts—senseless compliments and little words, as he poured—what did bugs have to pour?—himself inside Markus.

They both clung to each other, Markus panting and sweating, Fi oddly still.

When Fi pulled out, Markus felt something sticky and cold dribble down his legs. He ignored it, instead concentrating on where to put his feet as Fi let him down.

_You’re nicer than a cow_.

Markus blinked, tried not to smile. “How would you know?”

_Because I do_, the counter was a weak one, and he knew it. Eagerly, he pressed his head against Markus’ face, chittering—he sounded pleased. _I like you more._

Markus did not answer, instead he leaned his head against Fi’s, closing his eyes, and allowing himself to enjoy the feel of Fi’s content thoughts pressing against his own.

He was looking at me with those large black eyes again. I could feel them, studying my face, trying to catch my attention before speaking, but I ignored it. Instead, I shifted away and closed my eyes. As if on cue I felt him there—tentatively prodding inside my skull, but barely daring to breathe. He was hesitant, and largely so—wanted to say something, but most likely didn’t even know where to begin. I felt his grip tighten on me, pressing his face against my side. His hot breath tickled my skin, he pressed his lips against it, but still did not speak.

_Are you OK?_

When the words bubbled forth, they were almost anti-climatic, but I had to bite back a smile. Didn’t really bother replying either.

Concern shifted around inside at him—it gnawed at him, but he was at a loss on how to react. So he stayed there, breathing slowly. I felt him move again after a few minutes—the movement startling me from my sudden bout of drowsiness.

_Does it hurt?_

When I opened my eyes, I was startled to see him so close—his face was barely an inch from mine, forcing me to focus on those big worried eyes.

“Not really,” and it didn’t—honestly. It could be a bit annoying, and hard to concentrate sometimes, but it didn’t really hurt.

He blinked and his face—vulnerable and open—told me he didn’t really believe me. He accepted my answer regardless, nodding to himself. He slid lower on the bed, and pressed his nose to my side again, a hand briefly fluttering to my abdomen. He seemed to be about to say something, because he opened his mouth to speak, but instead, he just sighed, and squeezed his eyes shut.

_I’m sorry._

How odd.

“Don’t be,” I heard myself say, stretching a hand to curl my fingers around his hair, smoothing the stray locks away from his face, “it’ll be alright.”


End file.
